Part-a-part
(noun): taking life in small pieces, one at a time
We never know where life will take us. Sometimes to a great underground chasm, sometimes to the highest clouds. Only taking life in small parts will help you digest it properly and transform it into something special.
How else will you know they're a good fit, if you're constantly intoxicated or overwhelmed by material things or even too many people filling that hole you carry inside of you? Like little pieces of the same puzzle. If one bad apple spoils the case, you should do everything in your power to fix it. Even if it means changing your self. This usually helps, but it never comes without serious consequences.
Losing one thing usually means acquiring another. Always. If you can't see it yet, you haven't reached your destination without seeing its true colours. Sometimes it happens that you need to pass more water under the bridge to see the thrust of things. To trust. To tribulate. To thrive.
To lose all your friends and say, “They never meant much to me if I never meant enough to them, even if they suggested otherwise”.
One step at a time, one less poignant, and yet it should have a soothing effect. So why isn't this the case? Passe-partout of lost causes passing through turbulent times when nothing seems right and can only be ostracised. The distant meaning doesn’t really mean anything.
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Thank you for reading!
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
Where wild roses grow full of words...
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More stories from Moon Desert and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Soul-Soaking
You can't judge it by appearance. Intrusive, inquisitive, elusive digging will liven things up. Sometimes it's just an arm in a sling. It has the quality of suffering felt so deeply that the entire soul is torn apart. And nothing can be done except a sympathetic nod.
By Moon Desert2 years ago in Fiction
The Silent Witness: A Cold Case That Remained Unsolved for 40 Years
The Discovery For Detective Elias Thorne, the Miller case was more than just a job; it was a ghost that haunted his career. The file was thin, yellowed, and smelled of decay—the kind of scent that only clings to papers locked away for four decades. In the autumn of 1984, the Miller family had simply vanished from their isolated farmhouse in Oakhaven. There was no struggle, no sign of forced entry, and no motive. Just a half-eaten meal on the kitchen table and a front door swinging open in the cold, biting wind. For forty years, the case remained a silent witness to a tragedy that had no perpetrator. The townspeople whispered about curses and vengeful spirits, but Thorne preferred cold, hard facts. The problem was that facts had been in short supply since 1984. The Cold Cellar The breakthrough came unexpectedly. During a routine renovation of the dilapidated farmhouse, a contractor pulled back a rotting floorboard in the master bedroom. Beneath it, resting in the dark, sat a small, rusted tin box. Inside, there was no money or jewelry—only a single, handwritten confession that ended with a chilling realization: the culprit hadn't left the house. Thorne felt a shiver run down his spine as he arrived at the scene. The house stood like a tomb in the middle of the forest. Inside, the air was heavy and stagnant. Thorne headed straight for the cellar. He had always felt that the police in 1984 had missed something, but he never expected to find what he did. As he shone his flashlight around the damp space, the beam landed on a thick, central stone pillar. It looked uneven, as if the masonry had been patched in a hurry decades ago. Thorne swung his heavy mallet, and with a few forceful strikes, the aged mortar gave way. The Dark Truth Behind the stone lay a hidden chamber, a cramped space that had been concealed from the world for half a century. It was not just a hiding spot; it was an archive of misery. Inside were personal items—watches, lockets, letters, and identity cards—that didn't belong to the Millers. They belonged to others who had vanished in the area over the last fifty years. The "Silent Witness" wasn't the house; it was the history buried within its foundations. The Miller family hadn't been the only victims; they had stumbled upon a serial predator who had been using the farm as a hunting ground for generations. Thorne sat on the cold floor, surrounded by the remnants of lost lives, realizing that some secrets are not just meant to be kept—they are guarded by the shadows themselves. The Haunting Realization In the corner of the hidden room, Thorne found a diary. Its pages were brittle, covered in frantic, messy scrawl. One entry, dated the day the Millers disappeared, sent a jolt of terror through him: "He is watching us from the walls. He never left. He is part of the foundation now." Thorne stepped back, his flashlight trembling. He realized that the mystery of the Millers had been solved, but in doing so, he had opened a door to a much larger, darker enigma. The silence of the Oakhaven farmhouse had finally been broken, but the truth was far more terrifying than the ghosts the town had imagined. Thorne turned to leave, but the heavy cellar door creaked shut behind him, cutting off the light. He knew then that the house was not empty. The silent witness was still watching, and for the first time in forty years, it had found a new guest.
By Baseer Shaheen about 17 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
That which is yet at a distance means little to nothing until it becomes present. There is no master key that will guarantee a result that remains far off. But bit by bit, step by step, present moment by present moment the journey may be undertaken. Whether it arrives as we had imagined or someplace completely different, no one of us can say. But in the moment we can know we are here & sense the next toward which we are headed.